


Foundation.

by AloryShannon



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Ambiguous-Gender Apprentice (The Arcana), Drabble, Other, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22573360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AloryShannon/pseuds/AloryShannon
Summary: Asra is away again; the Apprentice carries on as best they can.  [pre-game]
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Foundation.

_“I’ll miss you.”_

Those words ring in your ears once again, resonating with all the times you’ve heard them before, a bitter harmony. As always, you’d hoped that the last time you’d heard them, it would be the last time you’d ever _have_ to hear them. As always, that hope is crushed, like the dried herbs beneath your pestle as you work on grinding up ingredients for a basic house-cleansing spell.

You are a student of the magical arts, learning and working in a magic shop and living above it with your master, an enigmatic fortune-teller and powerful magician named Asra. Those words still resounding in your ears are Master Asra’s, so often repeated that they’re practically a mantra by now. Which is why you also know what he’ll say next:

_“Well then, take care of yourself.”_

You can, and you do, more or less, muddling through card readings and selling magical trinkets and enchanted brews while he’s gone. You can only remember it vaguely, but at first, when you’d been weaker both magically and physically, he hadn’t left you very often, just a few hours at a time here and there. As you’d grown more sure-footed and learned to walk on your own again, as you’d soaked up the knowledge of elixirs and tinctures and infusions and decoctions, that time had stretched to one day, two, then five. Now he always leaves at least once a month, always for a week or two at a time. It’s almost gotten to the point where he’s gone more often than he’s here with you.

You wonder why that is.

You wonder if you’re to blame, and if so, how or why. You’re a good student, weaving spells with your magic and brewing potions both seem to come naturally to you, as if it’s something that you’ve been doing all your life instead of just for the past few years. Master Asra never misses a chance to tell you how much potential you have, so it isn’t that you’re somehow lacking on a professional level. You think the two of you get along well on a personal level also. When he’s there, Asra is vibrantly present, turning his radiant, dimpled smile your way often, laughing with you over something a customer had said, cooking and sharing meals with you, lulling you to sleep with the steady sound of his heartbeat. When he’s with you like that, it doesn’t seem like he wants to be anywhere else, like he’d ever dream of leaving your side.

And yet, he always does.

_“I know this is rough on you...but I can’t take you with me. I’m sorry.”_

You’ve had that conversation, or variations on it, for over a year now. At first you’d just accepted it when he’d left, still lost in a fog every bit as thick and real as the ones that wrap themselves around the magic shop every night. It took you months to realize that you even _could_ wonder where he’d gone--and once you’d realized it, your curiosity had been sparked. Where did he go, when he left you? It’s the first thing you can remember feeling inquisitive about, the first question you can remember asking him...as well as the first question he’d refused to answer.

As you’d grown more aware of things, you’d discovered that you wanted to protest. You didn’t like it when he left, didn’t want him to be gone for so long. You wanted to ask him to stay, or at least wanted to ask him to take you along. You still want to ask him those things even now. As always the words had been sitting in the back of your throat, burning like embers as you’d watched him pack his bag yet again.

With one difference: this time had been the first time that you hadn’t wanted to ask him not to go. You’d wanted to _tell_ him not to go. You’d wanted to _demand_ to go with him, to follow after him wherever he decided to roam, to see the world with him. You’d wanted to stay at his side, regardless of where that meant you’d be going. You’d wanted to be with him--a yearning so intense, it bordered on need. At times you feel that you’re a flower that turns its face towards the glorious, beautiful sun of your mysterious master, and all the days are cloudy and overcast at best and black as night at worst without him there.

It makes you feel weak to think about that, as weak as you’d been when you hadn’t been able to form words properly, when you’d had to hang on to Asra’s arm to walk, when he’d had to feed you by hand. Asra hadn’t seemed to notice the way you were biting back your words--your demands--even more than usual this time. Perhaps it was for the best, you’d realized as you’d passed the next day selling your various magical wares.

Perhaps he was simply giving you time to grow on your own. To make sure that you could truly stand without his support.

Perhaps. Even so, you still wish that he would tell you where he’d been when you ask, that he would offer to take you with him even once.

But he never does, and so you carry on as best you can.

Where he goes on his journeys isn’t the only thing you don’t know. Asra’s past is a mystery to you, and your own is almost equally mysterious. You don’t remember anything from before Asra took you in as his apprentice. Where you were born, how long you’ve been here in Vesuvia, what your family is--or was--like, all of that information is somewhere inside of you, it must be, but it’s shrouded. You’re cut off from it somehow, separated by a thin, almost-transparent veil of gossamer forgetfulness.

It should bother you, all these things you don’t know, that you can’t remember about your past, but somehow you can’t seem to focus on them, the should-be sharp edges of all the gaps in your memory somehow smoothed out until they fit close enough together for you to carry on as you are, as you have been for as long as you can remember, which isn’t long. It’s safe here, comfortable and interesting; you have a good, happy life with Master Asra, so what use is it to wonder about anything else? And what more could you want? You’re learning how to use your magic, growing into a stronger magician and person every day. You visit the lively, bustling market with Asra and explore the various fantastical shops together and try all sorts of delicious bread when he’s home, and if that’s somewhat less than you would like, well, aren’t you just being greedy?

Maybe you are, but telling yourself not to be selfish doesn’t make you feel his absence any less keenly. The days and sometimes weeks when Master Asra is gone feel dimmer, as if the sun and moon and stars are all a shade less bright. The sounds and voices at the market are muted, the colors of the potions you’re brewing seem faded, and nothing that you cook, bake, or buy tastes quite right when you aren’t too distracted to remember to eat properly.

One thing never changes, though. Even when Asra is gone, your dreams are just as vivid as ever. You _know_ they’re important, know that they _mean something,_ but that certainty only makes them all the more frustrating, all the more confusingly obscure.

And tonight is no different. Master Asra has been gone for three weeks now, and you’re starting to worry, beginning to wonder if something has happened to him...or if he’s simply decided not to come back at all this time. You know that he loves to travel, and it’s not impossible that whatever he might have found out there in the wide world is far more interesting than staying in one small town and working in a magic shop with an apprentice who for all their supposed talent can’t seem to keep a proper hold on their memories.

 _He’ll come back,_ you tell yourself as you wipe down the counter for the twenty-third time today, despite the fact that business has been painfully slow this afternoon, has been slow this whole week. _He promised he would, and he always has before. The last thing he said to me was ‘until we meet again.’ After saying something like that, he **has** to come back._

 _...But what if he doesn’t?_ That unpleasant, heart-wrenching thought twists through your mind as you draw the curtains shut and put out the lantern that evening, indicating that the shop is closed for the night. You don’t let yourself linger on it, at least not directly, doing your best to push it away, but a vague suggestion of it remains nonetheless, an anxious shadow that casts a pall over the rest of the evening.

Unable to focus on the book of spells you were supposed to be studying, you go to bed early, and almost immediately fall into a dreamless sleep. The darkness that surrounds you is deep, like the shadows behind the stars. That restful emptiness doesn’t last long, however, and now you’re caught in the middle of another of your intense nocturnal imaginings:

The first thing you see in front of you, far in the distance, is what looks to be a road, a path of pitch-black stone winding serpentine through the desolate desert landscape spreading out to all horizons, a weaving runnel of spilled ink. Rust-colored sand hisses around you, an insistent wind stings your eyes even as it tugs on your clothes, as if to pull you forward, to set your feet on the beginning of that ominous obsidian path...but you resist, uncertain, afraid. A few wisps of ashen cloud scud across a star-studded sky, the arching heavenly dome a shade of indigo so deep that it’s closer to rich royal purple. As you watch, more and more clouds drift into view, obscuring the comforting glitter of the constellations overhead.

Turning a slow look around, everything in sight seems bleak and empty, vacant and isolated...almost lonely.

But you’re not alone. No...you can feel someone else here… Someone who’s close, but unable to see you, both of you hidden from each other despite your proximity, lost in the wind, in the spinning sand, in the thick, syrupy darkness...

...No. No, you won’t let this darkness win out. Whoever this nearby person is, you have to find them. You _will_ find them. You don’t know who it is, and yet...and yet you sense that you do know them, and intimately. Better than you know yourself, not that that’s saying much.

Holding out your hand, you breathe evenly, finding a steady rhythm with your heartbeat, and _focus._ Your physical body might not be here in this dream-world, but some vital part of you is clearly still very much present. You draw from that solidness within yourself, and as a thrilling sort of tingling sensation grows at the base of your neck, a flame bursts into existence in your cupped palm.

The flame is small and wavers uncertainly in the sharp-toothed wind, threatening to go out at any moment. But even that delicate, trembling light is enough to force back the darkness, if only slightly...which means _it’s working._

_You can do this._

Letting your eyes fall half-closed, you concentrate on that weak, quivering tongue of red flame, gradually feeding more and more of your magic into it, forcing it to blaze bigger, brighter, stronger. Before long, there’s a roiling, twisting fireball in your hand, and when you focus on it, you see a few brief flickers of gold at its core: true fire, warm and life-giving.

The heat from it is so intense now that you can feel the skin on your face tightening, but you don’t flinch, don’t pull back, don’t let it die down. Not yet. Not until you’ve found them, that precious person so near and yet so far, the one who’s lost in the sand and the wind and the darkness.

 _I’m here,_ you think as you stare with hard, fixed intent into the heart of the fire dancing wildly mere inches over your outstretched hand, _I’m right here._

 _“Find me,”_ you hear yourself whisper aloud as embers spin around you like planets, glowing like fireflies, shining like stars. _“Let me reach you…”_

And in the face of the brilliant blaze flaring up your hand, throwing fierce scarlet-gold light all around you, the darkness retreats, melting like wax and trickling away in thick rivulets. The sand and the wind whip around you even more fiercely now, trying to force your hand down, to extinguish the crimson flame billowing up and outwards. You close your eyes, digging down deep within yourself, determined to hold your focus, to keep this signal-fire burning, to keep your beacon lit.

Because they’re closer now, the one you’re trying to find, the one who you’d lost or who had lost you. They’ve seen your fire, and like a lodestone pulled north, they’re coming to you, drawn by the flame that burns as hot and as strong as your feelings for them.

The sand is tearing across your face, ripping into your skin, so you can’t open your eyes to look at them, but you know they’re there. They’re right there beside you now, reaching out to lightly brush the backs of their fingers across one of your ash-smudged cheeks. As they touch you, a delicious sort of tingle rushes through your whole body, and the flame in your hand flickers, briefly burning an incandescently passionate orchid purple...then sputtering, stuttering into a haunting, ghostly azure as your blood and the very breath in your body _freezes-_

And with a sharp gasp, your eyes snap open, and you’re awake.

Blinking hard, you turn a dazed look around at your surroundings, because while you’re certainly in the magic shop, you’re not upstairs in bed like you should be. You’re downstairs, standing in the middle of the shop, holding a lamp aloft with one hand even as you’re wondering how you got here.

Wondering what you’d been dreaming about, and why your eyes are burning while a deep chill resides in your chest.

Behind you, you hear the quiet scuff of a boot on the wooden floor, and as you catch a flicker of a moving shadow out of the corner of your eye, you whirl around, holding your lamp high, your other hand clenching tight, feeling empty and useless at your side. What if it’s an intruder, what if it’s a _thief,_ why don’t you have anything on hand to _throw-_

Your panic bursts like a bubble when the lamp in your hand flares slightly in some non-existent draft, letting you get a good look at the person standing there across the room. The buttery golden light flickers, dancing across softly-curling white hair and copper skin and a dearly familiar face.

It’s Asra. Master Asra is back.

You feel a swell of happiness rise inside you, a rush of relief and warm contentment that thaws the lingering frost of whatever dream you’d just emerged from. A quiet, relieved breath escapes your lips--then you find yourself swiftly drawing in another as your eyes meet. A jolt runs through you on finding yourself caught by the gaze of this person who you wish would never stop looking at you, who seems to see through you so easily so much of the time. Asra’s eyes are wide with surprise, and you wonder what your expression holds, if it contains any trace of your true feelings, any tell-tale hints of all the things you wish you were bold enough to say to him.

For a moment you both simply stare at each other, though the surprise on Asra’s face has been replaced with that closed, enigmatic half-smile he wears so much of the time. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, maybe you’re seeing things that aren’t real due to the shadows flooding the room, but you think there might be an edge of wonder in his expression, a gleam of admiration and affection as he murmurs your name, breathing it out like a prayer or a spell. It hangs there between the two of you, soft as a sigh, and you almost wonder if he’d actually spoken aloud at all.

...You should say something. You _need_ to say something. After being away for weeks, he’s just arrived here to find you standing in the middle of the shop in your underclothes, a lamp in one hand and a disoriented look on your face. But what should you say? You can’t ask about where he went this time--it’s no use, he never answers. And so you say the only thing that comes to mind as you grasp in vain for something meaningful, something fittingly heartfelt. Something that expresses everything he’s come to mean to you.

“...Master...welcome home.”

It’s not what you want to say. Not even close. But for whatever reason, those words won’t come. Despite how weak and vapid your greeting is compared to what you actually wanted to say, Asra smiles at you, and you feel as if perhaps what you said wasn’t completely worthless after all.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake. I thought you would’ve been in bed hours ago.”

You watch as he goes through the familiar motions of hanging up his coat, hat, and bag, your eyes following every movement, tracking each tiny action. Even while he’s doing something this trivial and commonplace, something you had watched him do more times than you can remember, you can’t seem to stop yourself from drinking him in, can’t keep your gaze from tracing his familiar figure.

Once again you need to say something, but your mind is full of the unexpected sight of him, and you can’t come up with anything bright or witty or even teasingly playful, much less coy and suggestive.

“I had a bad dream,” you find yourself saying, the words falling from your mouth unbidden, though as you try to recall it, you can’t remember what it was about or whether it really was bad or good. All you can remember is that you had dreamed. A lingering sensation of deep sorrow drifts through you as you focus on trying to remember, and you press a hand to your chest over your heart in response, but otherwise, you can’t recall anything. But even that is enough to convince you that it hadn’t been a _good_ dream.

“I’ll have to make something to help you sleep, then,” Asra says, closing the distance between you, and you feel your pulse in your throat as he stops just out of arm’s reach. Swallowing hard, you give a small nod, grateful that he’s willing to do something like that for you even though he’s just returned from a long journey and must be tired.

 _Why?_ you wonder, _why are you always so kind to me?_ It’s devastating how gentle he is with you, because at the same time he’s always careful to keep a certain amount of distance between you, and you don’t know what to make of it, you don’t know _why._ You can feel that important, urgent word forming on your lips, can taste all three letters as you gather them on your tongue, but as much as you want to ask, part of you is afraid of hearing the answer. A cold, distant-feeling pain twinges through the left side of your chest, an icy flash that lasts for half of an agonizing heartbeat, but it’s enough to freeze the words in place, and you’re forced to swallow them back, small frigid stones sliding down your throat to weigh cold and heavy in your stomach.

Then Asra is speaking again, and your preoccupation with that question fades away, the wintry knot in your gut uncurling and vanishing like smoke from a stick of incense.

“...You were sleep-walking again, weren’t you?” There’s a warmth in that question that’s also part-reprimand, a faint echo of concern that is obvious, yet impossible to divine the full reason behind. You had been, yes--you must have been, because you’d gone up to bed and now you’re down here with no memory of traveling through the space in between--but Asra has just stepped in the door, so how had he known? You draw in a breath, your mouth moves to shape the words, but then you notice Asra looking down at the ground. You look down too, suddenly anxious, but the floorboards have been swept clean, you’re always very conscientious about that if nothing else, so he must be looking at your feet-

Ah, your feet. Bare, visibly dusty and caked with dirt, though from _where_ you don’t know. You truly do keep the shop neat and tidy so you must have been _outside_ at some point, though you don’t remember that either. You curl your toes self-consciously as you angle a sheepish look up at Asra, hunching your shoulders a little as you wonder how to reply to his not-really-a-question. Obviously if your feet look like this, you’ve been sleepwalking. You both know it. But something about that soft, steady look he’s giving you is expectant, clearly waiting for your response.

“...I don’t remember getting up...” You manage finally, because there’s no reason to lie, not to Asra, not about this. Just because he never answers your questions doesn’t give you any reason not to answer his. You have nothing to hide, not here, not now.

His eyes twinkle in the faint, flickering lamplight, but his expression is unreadable. As ever, your Master Asra remains gentle, compassionate, and closed, like the loveliest of esoteric tomes placed on a high shelf: dazzling to look at, doubtless full of tempting secrets and even more tantalizing answers...and entirely out of reach.

“Come on,” he murmurs, moving forward again to take your arm, guiding you along, “Let’s get you cleaned up, then I’ll make us some tea. And that potion to help you sleep.”

Golden stars dance on heavy purple fabric as Asra brushes aside the hanging curtains, his touch tender as he guides you into the humble backroom. He sits you down on one of the well worn velvet stools at the table, and you breathe deeply, enjoying the familiar scent of tea, incense, and dried herbs. With an almost careless gesture that you’ve seen countless times before, he lights the hanging lantern above the cloth-draped table. Steady turquoise light floods the small space, gushing out through the colored glass, casting the whole room in an ethereal blue glow, and in that moment everything else seems to blur into the background, the entirety of your focus settling on your master. You can’t help the way your eyes trace their way over his familiar face, following each smooth curve and sharp angle and tousled curl, all awash with aquamarine light. You caress each part of him with your gaze, wishing you could reach out and use your hands instead, longing to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips; and for a moment, you lean forward, close enough to feel his breath brush against your face, close enough to fill your eager, greedy lungs with his smoky scent.

Surprised by the sudden proximity, Asra blinks, looking startled and somehow almost vulnerable. Then he smiles and eases backwards, his expression almost apologetic.

“I’ll go get the wash basin. Be right back.”

And with that, he disappears through the curtains, taking his distinctive scent with him. Though the comforting smells of the magic shop enfold you once more, you find yourself drawing in deeper breaths, trying in vain to catch any lingering traces of Asra. You find yourself closing your eyes, focused on finding it--and then he’s pushing his way through the curtain again, golden tassels trailing over one shoulder as he ducks back into the room, a slightly-chipped but still lovely, still serviceable ceramic wash-basin resting in his hands. He sets in on the floor in front of you with obvious care, then turns a gentle smile up at you.

“May I?”

You find yourself nodding before you realize that maybe you should have hesitated, or simply told him you could take care of it yourself. But you trust Asra implicitly, like a child trusts a loving parent, and he’s helped you wash more than just your feet over these past two years.

His hands are gentle and warm, and it’s only when he touches your skin that you realize how cold your feet are. They’re nearly numb, and while at first it’s almost painful to let your feet sink into the steaming water, before long you find yourself relaxing into the heat. Absently you wonder if Asra got the stove salamander to warm the water, or if he used magic to do it himself. 

The basin isn’t all that large, just barely big enough to fit both of your feet at once; you have to scrunch up your toes just slightly to let them press flat against the gently-curving bottom of the bowl. Even so it’s comfortable, and you’d almost be content to just sit here like this, drowsing pleasantly while the water cools. But the dirt caking your feet is red, quickly turning the water in the basin murky and bloody-looking, and again you wonder where you’d been wandering. There isn't dirt this color anywhere in Vesuvia, at least not that you can recall. Asra has to change out the water twice before it stays satisfyingly clear, clean enough for him to be able to give your feet a decent wash instead of simply smearing the mystifying russet clay around.

This time when he brings the basin of water back, you smell lemongrass, rosemary, a touch of lavender, a hint of sage, and you can feel your entire body relaxing already as you breathe in those scents, along with the shop’s regular undertones of books, spices, and dried flowers.

It’s unexpectedly interesting to watch the way Asra goes about washing your feet. Perhaps the most compelling thing about it is the fact that he doesn’t use magic in any obvious way, simply putting his dexterous hands and strong, slender fingers to use.

He dips one hand into the water, his movements decisive, those skilled, graceful fingers slipping around and underneath your foot, lifting it up and almost completely out of the basin. His other hand forms a cup, scooping up handfuls of water and letting it trickle down over your foot as the thumb of his other hand rubs slow, meditative circles into your skin. You flex that foot, giving a small hum of approval as his touch grows a little more firm--then abruptly goes light again, delicately tracing the bones on the top of your foot, the touch reminiscent of the thoughtful way his fingertips trail over your palm every so often, meditatively stroking the various lines folded into your skin. It always feels as if he’s doing his own private reading at those times, as if he’s either trying to figure something out or else reassure himself of something. You can’t quite tell which it is, but somehow you know better than to try to ask.

It isn’t long before Asra’s grip shifts, both hands and your foot fully submerged again, and then he starts to work in earnest. You can’t help giving a low noise of satisfaction that’s caught somewhere between a sigh and groan as his thumbs press into the sole of your foot, firm enough that it doesn’t tickle even slightly but still not the least bit rough, never rough, always, always gentle. He works his way steadily around your foot, kneading the joints to loosen them, carefully grinding the heel of one hand into the arch with long, smooth strokes. When his touch starts inching up around your ankle, he flicks a glance up at you, and you find yourself swallowing hard at the way he’s looking at you, uncertain if that soft, familiar smile is meant to appear quite so alluring as you’re finding it at this moment. The measured, methodical slide of his skin against yours is undeniably, unexpectedly sensual, and you catch your lip between your teeth to stop yourself from giving voice to any one of the mixed, muddled thoughts or feelings bubbling up inside you.

Just when you think you can’t possibly hold back that surge of swirling, confused emotions any longer, Asra guides your foot back down to the bottom of the basin, and you feel a pang of remorse, a resounding regret that it’s over so soon.

It isn’t, of course. He still has to take care of your _other_ foot.

This time you have more control over yourself as his strong, gentle hands work over your pliable, unresisting flesh and muscle. You still can’t hold back that quiet, half-moaned sigh of pleasure, but you do manage to stop worrying your lip with your teeth and simply relax into the moment. It feels good, so good, and part of you doesn’t ever want it to stop...

Then, like a reflection in a dim, dusty mirror, you realize that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. As you stare down into yours and Asra’s faint, watery shadows in the basin, you find yourself straining to brush aside the cobwebs of forgetfulness. As closely focused on you, your face, your reactions as he is, Asra must have noticed how intently you were looking down, because your eyes happen to meet his in the water, and all of a sudden, you’re in the middle of a memory. In that memory, Master Asra is kneeling in front of you just like this--but no, not at all like this, the atmosphere of that broken, glittering fragment of memory is entirely unlike this...and yet not quite entirely unlike this. Asra’s hands are still gentle, his eyes are still warm, you know that because you’re feeling the same thing from him right now. He’d cradled your foot just like this, as if even this often-dirty, totally unremarkable part of your body had been a priceless treasure simply because it was a part of _you._

He cared for you. He cared for you deeply, far more deeply than the bond shared by a master and an apprentice would warrant. Both then...and now.

...But then...back then...there was _more..._

_Then, he had pressed his lips to the top of your foot, even as he let one of his hands slide up your calf, across your shin, then pause to draw gentle ghostly-light circles on the inside of your knee with his thumb. Raising his head, he’d met your eyes and smiled, and all of that cherishing warmth was still there...but...there was also heat, a passion that glowed in his face as he looked to you for permission to continue. On receiving your nod, your quiet murmur of approval, Asra had bent his head again, and this time his lips had brushed against the same spot where his hand had lingered, his mouth pressing soft kisses against the inside of your knee, trailing upwards-_

A sudden sharp pain lances through your chest, white-hot agony wrenching you out of that tantalizing shred of memory, making you flinch, reflexively weaving your hands into a loose net to support your suddenly-throbbing head. Your whole body feels weak, as if you might collapse, your pulse pounding in your ears, your chest so tight that it’s hard to breathe, difficult to drag even a half-breath into the heaving bone cage of your ribs, your gasps ragged and harsh in the otherwise still, peaceful night.

“...Oh, no. No, no no no... Not again...”

Asra’s voice is quiet as ever, but there’s a discordant note of foreign-sounding strain in it that jumbles up its usual musical quality. Soft as it is, it’s taut with fear, twisted with despair and remorse as he murmurs your name, quickly drying his hands and reaching up to cup your cheeks with them. When your eyes settle on him, the pain grows impossibly worse, as if your very heart is determined to tear itself out of your chest, and Asra quickly but gently guides your head into a downwards tilt, averting your gaze from him.

“...I’m sorry,” he whispers, an unspeakable sorrow edging his otherwise soft, utterly normal voice, but despite the misery in it, just hearing his voice sends a wave of calm over you. “Just breathe, slow and easy...” Despite the sharp, lingering jab, like a knife-strike through your breast, you do as Asra says and stop struggling for air, forcing yourself to slowly count to five with each inhale and exhale.

Something flickers against your heel, cool scales brush against your ankle, and suddenly Faust is there, winding her way up your master’s arm, draping herself across Asra’s shoulders. Her head is turned towards you, though, and she keeps easing closer and closer, forked tongue darting out to lightly graze your cheek. When she touches you, you almost think you can hear whatever she’s saying to your master--but even though you can’t quite make out the words through the drumbeat-tempo of blood pounding in your ears, you can definitely sense worry from Asra’s familiar.

“It’s all right,” Asra murmurs, and you’re not certain if he’s speaking to you or to Faust, “Sorry for scaring you. I’ll fix this.”

“I’m...not scared,” you state, watching as Faust subsides, settling herself more securely around Asra’s shoulders like a serpentine shawl...but the faint rasp in your breathing and the way your voice wobbles belies that brave claim.

Asra’s chuckle is rueful this time, definitely wistful, and as close to bitter as you’ve ever heard it. “...Maybe you should be. Might make things easier...for both of us.”

Something is still throbbing painfully in your chest, jaggedly jittering little jolts of icy pain lancing their way through you if you breathe too deeply or too quickly. The ice turns to fire whenever you start to raise your eyes to Asra’s face, but even though you can’t quite muster the fortitude to look up at him anyway, you see him shake his head in your peripheral vision.

“I’m sorry. This is my fault,” he mutters, voice low and heavy with regret. He’s still cradling your face in his hands, thumbs lightly stroking your cheeks, and now he leans in to rest his forehead against yours. “It’s still too soon... You’re so much stronger now, but you aren’t ready yet. I knew that and I should have stopped you. But...I _wanted_ you to be ready. I wanted it, _oh_ so badly...”

Asra gives a quiet sigh that’s full of longing, and once again you have to fight the urge to look up at him, to find out what sort of expression he’s making when he sighs like that, as if he were a bird locked in a cage that still remembered with painful clarity what it felt like to brush the sky with its wings.

“...But for now...I need you to forget. Forget,” he says again, murmuring your name. He leans in close, closer than ever, and as your eyelids flutter closed, he lightly presses his lips to your forehead, a surge of cool, protective mist envelops your mind, and you forget. Forget everything, except that he’s been gone again, that he’s here now, and that you’re glad to be sharing tea with him. Glad that he’s back.

And yet, amidst that happiness, there’s a faint tendril of something else. A trailing thread, like a string discordant notes from a single instrument that are largely lost beneath the crashing cataract of music flooding out of the rest of the orchestra, but are still just on the edge of hearing. There’s some part of you that’s _not_ happy, an almost imperceptible ache of longing that’s been displaced from its source...

You’d been doing something else, something...something _different_ before Asra had hurriedly vanished upstairs to make tea--which is unusual, since you make the tea most of the time. You’re not sure why that is, because when he returns a few minutes later, the tea in the worn cup he carefully passes into your outstretched hands is very good. Even after downing a smaller cup of something very strong and bitter and aromatic, the tea still tastes lovely, light and refreshing and rich. The flavor of it coats your tongue, the warmth of it settles in your midriff and radiates outward to the rest of your body, and before long you’re blinking owlishly down into your empty cup.

“Ready to try sleeping again?” Asra asks, taking your cup and giving it a quick rinse. He scoops up the wash basin from upstairs (why is it down here? Asra must’ve brought it down for some reason, but you can’t quite recall him doing it), stepping to the back door to dump out the water. As he passes by, you catch the scent of rosemary, of lemongrass, of lavender and sage, and your feet tingle in a way that makes your toes curl.

But you’re too drowsy to puzzle it out right now, and when Asra leans over you with his soft smile, offering his arm, you’re glad to have him guiding your feet and helping you up the stairs.

The bed is a mess, blankets rumpled and dragging on the floor. Nearly all the mismatched throw pillows are shoved over to one side--Asra’s side of the bed--though a few are scattered about on the floor. Despite the battle you’re currently fighting to keep your heavy eyelids from drooping closed, it’s still obvious even to you that whoever had been sleeping in this bed had not been having a restful time of things.

And “whoever” had been _you,_ of course.

...Yes...yes, you’d been dreaming… The details are lost in a whirling cloud of red sand, but you can remember a road, a brilliant flame shining out like a lighthouse and slashing through the darkness, cutting it to inky fragments...and the feeling of having someone familiar close beside you, and yet impossibly distant at the same time.

It doesn’t make any sense, you think blearily as Asra digs around to rearrange the throw pillows into a comfortable nest before helping you into bed. Without the slightest pause, he sheds his outer clothes and clambers in after you, just as he has ever since you can remember. As he shifts and settles in, drawing the blankets up snugly around the both of you, you find yourself inching closer, inexorably pulled towards him, an uncertain sea irresistibly tugged at by a secretive, luminously beautiful moon. Asra doesn’t protest, doesn’t stiffen or shift away when you curl into him, resting your head on his chest. When you chance a look up at his face, you find that he’s gazing at you with an openly affectionate smile that only widens when your eyes meet. You both hear and feel a sigh whisper its way out of him, though you can’t quite tell if it was content or if it was somehow wistful, too. You want to ask, want to try again to see if you’ll get any answers this time, but you’re losing the struggle to keep your eyes open, your exhaustion so profound that it’s starting to be a challenge to keep your vision focused at all.

And so, with a sigh of your own that tells only of weariness, you stop fighting it. You let your eyes drift shut, your head still pillowed on Asra’s chest, and he gives a fond chuckle as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, burying his face in your hair.

_“I won’t go to the places you can’t follow anymore. Soon.”_

Those words are vaguely familiar, and are murmured so quietly that you’re not entirely certain that Asra had spoken them aloud at all. You try to cling to them, desperate to believe they’re the truth, that he means them, that he’ll stop leaving you behind all the time. But you can’t find any purchase on their slippery surfaces, and they slide away from you as your whole body relaxes into sleep.

This time when you drift out of the tranquil dusk of dreamlessness, Asra is there, too. 

Instead of a desert, this time you find yourself surrounded by a starshot sea of indigo grain that ripples in a delicate, unfelt wind. The sound of sweet, tiny bells rings out as the waist-high stalks sway back and forth and collide with each other, and with a smile, Asra offers you his hand.

Without even having to think about it, you reach for him, placing your hand in his. His fingers gently curl around yours, and he starts to tug you along, leading you deeper into the field. You thread your fingers through his as you hurry to catch up, to fall into step beside him instead of just letting yourself be towed along after him, and when you do the smile he turns your way is nothing short of radiant.

You smile back, hoping your own expression is even half as breathlessly joyful as Asra’s.

Some part of you already knows that you won’t remember this when you wake up, but for now you’re going to enjoy it, to soak in as much of it as you can. Briefly closing your eyes, you draw in a deep breath, rife and ripe with the wet green scent of unharvested grain, and curiously enough the dry, crackling paper-and-glue scent of books--a bit of something unfamiliar mingling with a bit of home.

Asra gives your hand a slight squeeze, and you open your eyes as he says, “...One day, we’ll travel together for real. Not just in your dreams.” Sudden color floods his cheeks, and his eyes slide sideways as he adds quickly, almost nervously, “...That is, if you still want to when the time comes.”

“I do want to. I always _will_ want to. I hate being left behind all the time,” you reply as you return his hand’s gentle pressure. You’ve said enough, you could stop there, and something tells you that you really probably should. But this is a dream, and here at least you should be able to find it in yourself to force out some tarnished, counterfeit version of all the bright, beautiful things you’ve wanted to say to him for weeks--months--maybe even years. “...So long as the path is wide enough for two...I’ll go with you, Master Asra. Anywhere.”

Your face might be a little flushed now also, but you’ve been this bold, so you might as well see it through. You glance over at Asra...and find him giving you that coy, mysterious half-smile that curls around his mouth like Faust often curls up around the half-cooled kettle on particularly cold mornings.

“You’re more honest in dreams, aren’t you.”

You blink at that, because while you’d known this was a dream, you’re surprised that Asra is aware of that as well. And if he is...then maybe this is something more than just a regular dream. Maybe some part of this is somehow... _real._

Asra’s smile has widened--he’s been watching your face as you processed things--gradually growing from playful interest to full amusement. It’s so wide now that you can see those adorable dimples in his cheeks, and you can’t help wondering what they would feel like beneath your fingers, beneath your lips-

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, breaking in on that confusing, muddling line of thought before it can spin out of control entirely, which you think is probably for the best. “I want you to feel like you can be honest with me. I hope you can learn to trust me enough to tell me the truth about whatever you’re thinking and feeling, and not just in dreams either. And even if you don’t remember this when you wake up tomorrow, I definitely will. So...I’ll remind you about it someday. When you want to know. When you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” you say, and though you dearly want the words to be true, you instinctively know that they aren’t. They ring hollow in your ears, and it feels wrong to tell such a blatant lie so soon after Master Asra had said he wanted you to be able to tell him the truth, so you add, “...At least, I want to be.”

Asra only shakes his head in response. “I can’t decide for you when you’re ready. Only you can decide that. But...it sounds to me like _you_ don’t think you’re ready.”

Only now do you realize that you’d both stopped walking at some point, and your awareness suddenly widens, encompassing your surroundings. Both the grain and the wind that had been stirring it have gone still, and for a moment, the only sound you can hear is the pulse of your heartbeat in your ears. There’s a cadence to its tempo that feels familiar, like you’ve heard it somewhere else before… Before you can get anywhere with trying to figure it out, the wind suddenly picks up, setting the silver-speckled ultramarine stalks of grain tossing like foamy waves at sea, a cheery cacophony of overlapping chimes. The heavens arch overhead, but instead of black or blue or some shade in between, it’s a deep turquoise, speckled with stars that twinkle down at you from unfamiliar constellations. The faint scent of fresh water comes to you on the breeze, and straight ahead, looming so close and majestically that you can only wonder why you hadn’t noticed it before, is a forest full of tall, stately trees. You can see a few on the edge have a thick moss growing on them that glows a luminous magenta, and vibrantly multi-colored toadstools pepper their roots...though some are arranged in such a way that it almost looks like they’re lining a path that leads deep into the woods...

It’s Asra’s quiet voice, the steady pressure of his hand clasping yours, that brings your wandering mind back to your conversation. “Take your time, and let yourself grow at your own pace. You’re getting stronger every day, and...I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as it takes. There’s no need to rush things.”

_Whether it’s another year or two, or eight, or more...I’ll wait._

The words hadn’t been spoken aloud, but somehow you heard them nonetheless. You can read them in the color blooming high in Asra’s cheeks and the steadfast, devoted warmth glowing in his eyes when he looks at you. Reflexively, your hand tightens around his, and the urge is there, stronger than ever, to lean forward and close the foot or so of distance separating you. Your eyes flick down to his mouth, those tempting lips still curled in the usual soft smile, and you feel yourself leaning in...but something stops you. Uncertainty, because no matter how close you are, how close you get to him, some part of Asra always seems to pull back. Despite how much he clearly cherishes you, he never seems inclined to make a move, to shift your platonic relationship into anything more intimate, and you wonder if you’ve misread him. You don’t want to force anything on him, don’t want to overstep any invisible boundaries. And yet...the pressure of his hand, the way his eyes often linger on you, the way he never shies away from touching your arm, your shoulder, your face, your hands, is telling. Isn’t it?

Maybe he doesn’t know what you really want, either.

If he won’t make a move for whatever reason, maybe that means it’s up to you. 

Still, you can’t quite decide, and your nerve fails at the last instant. Instead of pressing them to his mouth, your lips graze his cheekbone, the contact light as the brush of butterfly wings, brief as a gleam of honeyed sunlight drizzling through the clouds on an overcast day. Asra goes still, not even seeming to breathe, but his grip on your hand tightens almost imperceptibly.

“...Thank you,” you murmur as you pull back and smile at him, grateful for his tenderness, his patience, his very presence. As much as he’s gone lately, it still seems like he’s always there when you need him most. His unspoken words, that promise of _waiting,_ had felt...heavy, fraught with hidden meaning, and you find yourself wondering.

You have no memories from before about two years ago.

But Master Asra...he doubtless does have those memories. Doesn’t he? And since this is a dream, and you’re being bold as it is...you decide to make a request.

“...Tell me about it someday.”

Asra looks sideways at you, blinking slowly in confusion. “...What?”

“When I’m ready...and when _you’re_ ready...I want you to tell me how long you’ve waited...” You swallow hard, but push the rest of the words in your mouth out, like fledglings being forced out of the nest and into the sky. “...And why.” You meet his startled gaze seriously, then you can’t help cracking a half-smile. Holding out your other hand, you offer it to Asra. “Shake on it?”

For a breathless moment, he just stares at you, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. His gaze flicks down, dropping to your outstretched hand--and when it returns to your face an instant later, he’s smiling again. With a soft chuckle, he takes your offered hand, though since it’s your left and his right, he can’t quite give it a businesslike shake. Instead, he reaches out and entangles his fingers with yours, then dips his head. This time he doesn’t lower his gaze, looking up at you through thick, silvery eyelashes as his lips brush against the first joint of your forefinger, the touch light and fleeting as a passing breeze. Raising his head, he gives you a smile so warm and radiant that it puts the midday sun to shame and murmurs, “Deal.”

You’re not sure what sort of expression you’re making, but whatever it is, it’s enough to draw out a genuine laugh from Asra, rich and full and comforting.

“Now that that’s settled...we should get moving.” Still smiling, he lets go of one of your hands, albeit with visible reluctance, and starts off through the field again, still holding your other. As you fall into step with Asra again, both of you carefully wading through the jingling, chiming grain, you can’t help thinking about what just happened. The way he’d looked up at you just now. The momentary contact between his lips and your skin... You swallow hard, struggling against the heat blossoming in your cheeks, and unthinkingly give Asra’s hand a squeeze. He glances over, his mysterious little smile going almost sly as he takes in your reaction, but he doesn’t say anything, not even to lightly tease you about it.

As you draw closer to the forest, stepping into the long shadows the trees cast in the pinkish light from the pair of waxing moons riding high in the sky, the air starts to grow moist, though not quite humid. A kaleidoscope of strange new scents wafts towards you on a breeze that just stirs your hair, the mix of smells every bit as colorful as the moss and toadstools lighting up the otherwise intriguingly dark woods. Letting your eyes fall half-closed, you raise your face, breathing in deeply, catching traces of things your recognize--wet leaves, moist soil, a sharp hint of something like peppermint oil, the thick perfume of a nearby elysium tree in full bloom, all mingling with the earthy, musty musk of decomposing plants--amidst the exciting flood of distinct, foreign fragrances.

At the very edge of the woods, Asra slows to a stop, looking up to marvel at the way the trees’ branches twist and weave together high overhead in an intricate dance.

“I’ve never seen a forest quite like this one before. I wonder where this path leads...” It’s clear that Asra wants to follow the mysterious trail outlined by the brightly-hued toadstools, but even so he looks to you for your input. You’re gratified that he genuinely cares about what you want, even when it comes to something like this...but in this case, at least, you’re certain that you both want the same thing.

Drawing in another deep breath, rich with the scent of damp earth and pungent plant life, you feel a wide smile spreading across your face. It might only be happening in a dream, but even so, you’re finally traveling somewhere new and exciting with Master Asra. And after all...just because it’s happening in a dream doesn’t mean that it isn’t still real in its own way. Especially if he’s really here, and it’s a dream that you’re somehow sharing.

Giving Asra’s hand another squeeze, you beam over at him, not even trying to hide your eagerness...and for the first time ever, you move forward to take the lead, pulling Asra along after you as you finally get the chance to give voice to some--but not all--of the words you’ve wanted to say to him for months now:

“Come on! Let’s go exploring!”


End file.
